


Those Who Walk

by Amonae



Series: Zombie AU [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mild Gore, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 16:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11604690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amonae/pseuds/Amonae
Summary: Tony gets bit and doesn’t tell anyone. He's fine. It's under control. He'smanaging.





	Those Who Walk

**Author's Note:**

> Another short(ish) piece that I'd originally done as a Bingo fill for Cap-IM. Now I'm posting it here to share with you guys. Don't worry, a part two is already complete and will be incoming at some point next week. ;)
> 
> Unbeta'd. All faults are my own.

On the first day, it bleeds. A lot. It’s difficult to keep the bandages fresh without the rest of the group hovering around to inspect the injury, but he manages. Of course he manages, he’s Tony fucking Stark. When the world collapsed into a zombie apocalypse that would have given Hollywood a run for its money, he managed. When two members of their group were ripped apart at the seams and they were forced to leave them behind, he managed. When they couldn’t find a safe place to stay for the night and had to take rotating shifts in the woods, he managed.

Maybe not as well as he had hoped, on that last one, but he continues to deal with the outcome of that particular incident. Quietly, mind you, since the last thing he needs is good ol’ Stars and Stripes pointing the business-end of a shotgun in his face. 

“Stark. The Captain wants to see you, out by the west lookout.” 

Shit, he’s getting too complacent if he’s letting Birdbrain sneak up on him. Sure, the undead tend to move with a lot more shuffling and groaning, but even Tony can see that they’re getting… smarter. They’ve been adapting at an alarming rate, faster than he and Bruce can keep up with, given their limited resources. Hell, last week they tried to _open a door_. And not by the usual means of ramming their thick skulls against it repeatedly. It required dexterity, concentration, and _conscious thought_ to open a door. As if they need more reasons to be concerned about the whole situation.

Everything they know about the shambling corpses is: they hunt for and consume flesh; they turn anyone that has contact with whatever remains of their bodily fluids; and they don’t have enough coherent brainpower to create plans or strategy. At least, they didn’t. If that has changed, they’re probably fucked, even if they do have a master strategist, two geniuses, and a pair of former assassins on their side. But, on the other hand, that might mean a cure isn’t completely impossible. 

Besides, he’s Tony fucking Stark. If anyone is going to cure the god damned zombie apocalypse, why shouldn’t it be him?

The west lookout is barely more than a few pieces of corrugated aluminum they’ve linked together using scraps of metal and leather. They lucked out, this time, and stumbled upon what used to be some kind of gas station/rest stop. There are even a few cots in the back, so those in their group who aren’t used to long journeys can sleep for a few hours. 

The rest of them, they manage.

Cap is seated atop a ramshackle structure (that can be loosely referred to as scaffolding, if one is feeling generous), his blue eyes trained on the horizon. There are three other members of their group, some trained and some not, at the other lookout points. Theirs is one of the largest survivor groups out there, at least from what they’ve heard and seen. It doesn’t help their numbers that the Captain seems to pick up stragglers at every waypoint and fork in the road. The man himself looks tired, a scraggly blond beard adorning his usually clean-shaven features. Tony resists the urge to touch, keeping his twitching fingers jammed into pockets instead. Not the time, not the place.

“You wanted to see me?” The era of goofy nicknames and playful banter seem long behind them, any verbalization of the chiding antics gaining him nothing but narrowed glares where it used to earn a half-hearted look of frustration mixed with amusement. Tony misses it, sometimes, more than he can understand. More than he misses the suits, the tower, even Pepper…

Not the time, not the place.

“You’ve got next watch. Wanted to make sure you were up for it.” There is something to his tone, a rough, accusatory edge that makes Tony’s hackles rise up. Doesn’t help that the man’s gaze is still glued to the forest around them, not even a glance his way.

“What makes you think I’m not up for it?” Sure, he looks like shit, probably smells ten times worse, but that can be said for most of their little band of misfits. 

There’s a second, just a fraction of a moment, where Cap’s attention flickers to him. “I know you’ve been in the med kits. There’s a lot of stuff missing. Makes me think you got banged up last time.”

Tony frowns, filtering through his thoughts to find a lie that may pass as plausible. “It’s not a big deal. I tripped, like an idiot, while getting away from one of those things. Took a branch to my side. It’s really just a big scrape, but it bled a lot, at first. It’s fine now.”

There’s a grunt, a soft, non-committal noise that Tony tries not to read as disbelief. But then Cap’s climbing down off his perch, the whole thing swaying from the movement, and handing over the hunting rifle they save for lookout duty. After all, they’re the only things they have that are big enough and accurate enough to make use of the scopes Tony finagled together. 

“Be careful. Sound the alarm if you see anything urgent.”

“Sure. Get some sleep. You look like shit.” Tony can’t help himself around Cap, can’t help the lilting tone that flows into his voice or the cocky grin. But he can see the slightest slant to those chapped lips, a bit of tension bleeding from broad shoulders, and it’s all worth it.

“Same to you, Tony.”

 

On the second day, it starts to itch. Slow and careful, building up to an irritation that causes him to run jagged nails across his belly every third step. Steve takes notice—of course he notices these things—but doesn’t say a word. 

Thank god for that. He doesn’t need the others picking up on it, although knowing Natasha, she somehow knows. She always knows. But she isn’t saying anything either, so it’s fine. Everything is fine.

He’s managing.

When they go on a supply run, he volunteers to look for medical supplies. They allow it, mainly because he’s been the one using them all lately, but also because no one else knows what to look for. Well, except Bruce, but the team had decided it was better for green and mean to stay back with their troupe of survivors, with the civilians that weren’t as capable of defending themselves. The Big Guy, it seems, is immune to the disease, so it’s handy to keep him as a last line of defense for those who need it most. 

The first place he comes across—a small, run-down pharmacy—has already been looted, possibly by other survivors or those who panicked when the news first leaked to the public. There are barely a few packages of gauze left behind, every drug plundered, despite their useful(or useless)-ness. But Tony knows this city, or used to know it, and knows there is a pharmaceuticals conglomerate in one of the business towers. It’s kind of risky, going into one of those buildings. They don’t tend to have a whole lot of exits, and the amount of nooks and crannies that could be housing a nasty surprise are numerous. Also, stairs. Lots and lots of stairs.

Tony is wheezing his way onto the fifthteenth floor, clawing at his side in an attempt to scratch the never-ending itch, when his radio crackles to life. He freezes, glancing around the hallway and listening for any sound of unpleasant company. When nothing but the eerie quiet and a drift of dust motes greets him, he presses down on the PTT. “Stark, here. What?” he hisses, voice low, just in case he catches some unwanted attention.

“Where the hell are you?” Cap’s voice is hard, disgruntled, but not strained. They aren’t in the middle of a battle, then. “What part of fourteen-hundred did you not understand?”

He glances down at his watch, shakes it, looks again. The numbers stay frozen on twelve-twelve. “Sorry, Cap. Watch is busted.”

There’s a responding growl, a murmur of voices he can’t quite make out, and then clipped orders are echoing across the hall. “Get out here now. We’re leaving.”

“No can do, Cap,” Tony chimes, starting off down the hallway, the taser-pistol combo he’d rigged earlier drawn and at the ready. “Still need to get my hands on some of those sweet, sweet drugs we need so much. Not all of us have super-soldier healing.”

He hears the sharp intake of breath, wonders briefly if he took it too far, but then Cap is speaking again, the reluctance in his voice obvious. “Fine. But hurry up. Twenty minutes.”

The line clicks, dead. Tony jams the radio back into his pocket and hurries through the halls, not as cautious as he would have been, should have been, had he the leisure of time. He grabs some general supplies, lest the good Captain be suspicious of his intent, before heading to the room he knows must have the answer. It has to. 

Thankfully, the windows to the room are still intact (which means no one has looted it already), but on the downside, that also means he will have to find a way to pry open the door. The backup generator should have run out of power ages ago, so it’s just a matter of popping the locks and sliding back the glass. Easy, right?

Doing so quietly turns out to be not so easy. The door is old, damaged around the edges, and it lets out a screaming wail when he pries it apart with the bit of rebar he found down the hall. (By found, he means repurposed from an old radiator in one of the offices, but no one is here to call him on it.) For the first few inches, he pauses, glancing around and listening, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Silence greets him every time, so he gets bolder, pries more of the door open before pausing. When there is barely half a foot between him and the lab, he doesn’t stop, just keeps letting the horrible scrape of metal on metal ring through the hallways. 

So he doesn’t hear the thing so much as feel the hot, musty breath on the back of his neck, smell the copper and rot in the air. Tony flinches and scrambles through the gap in the doorway, feeling the drag of its hand on his tattered jeans, kicking wildly with his legs until he’s inside. The zombie is bigger than he is, broader in the shoulders, and it can’t seem to figure out a way through the small gap in the door. 

Thank god for small miracles. 

It does, however, linger outside while making horrible noises and clawing at the glass with what little flesh is left on its fingers. Yup, that is definitely bone scraping on the windows. Gross.

Tony rushes around the small space, flicking through vials and cooling units long-dead before finding what he is looking for. The thing is still scrabbling at the door by the time he’s through, still watching him with eyes glassed over and foggy. 

“Shit,” he mumbles, frowning at the thing and looping the straps of his bag tighter where it sits against his thigh. He needs to get out, now, before that thing brings its friends along for a snack with all the noise it’s making. 

Guess it’s as good a time as any to test out his new weapon. 

Tony lines up the sight, watches the thing zero in on him and claw at the doorframe with a renewed vigor. He hopes to hell it’s quieter than the other pistols they have, but seeing as it’s basically a glorified taser, it should be relatively silent. Should, being the operative word. He doesn’t have any idea how it will affect the undead, however, so he holds his breath while he fires the first three rounds right into its skull.

For a while, nothing happens. Tony can hear his heart thundering in his chest, feel it against the dull ache below his ribs. The thing keeps pressing, keeps trying to force its way in, and he knows it will only be a matter of time before the door either gives way or the dumb lunk figures out how to angle its torso. 

Oh, would you look at that. Figured it out after all.

Tony scrambles back over the counter in the center of the room, wanting to put something solid between himself and that _thing_. He isn’t sure if dual exposure will increase the infection speed, but he isn’t too keen to find out. 

The creature lumbers around one side of the table, dragging itself slow enough that Tony is able to dart about the opposite end, avoiding an outstretched arm that—yep, that’s definitely only bone left at the ends—barely skims the edge of his sleeve. 

Just as he’s getting tired of the little cat and mouse game the thing just… stops. Tony pauses, ready to run for the door, when he notices the creeping trail of smoke pouring from its ears. Brows raised, he darts for the slot in the doorway, expecting to be followed, but it just stands there while the insides of its skull are cooked. He risks another glance back, just to make sure it hasn’t changed its mind, but the creature just stares ahead, possibly attempting to process the heat expanding inside its head.

Tony takes the stairs two at a time, ignoring the ache in his side as he sprints back to the meeting point. Cap is glowering at him by the time he gets back, forty-three minutes past the rendezvous time, and Tony just shrugs as he tries to catch his breath. He can feel the narrowed gaze like embers crawling up the back of his neck all the way back to camp, his bag chafing where it rubs against the bandages. All that matters is that he got the vials, that this could work, _would_ work. 

And if not, well, he’ll manage.

 

On the third day, it burns. It burns like the fires of hell are trying to drag him down through the hole in his gut, and then some. He keeps his mouth shut about it, grinding his teeth together to restrain the pathetic sounds of agony that are threatening to escape his lips. It’s easier when he goes on watch, around mid-morning, because at least he is alone in his personal hell. He doesn’t have to worry about what kinds of faces he’s making, doesn’t have to keep the occasional whimper from slipping out.

So he glowers out at the horizon, trying to keep his mind alert, with eyes that keep hazing with tears every few moments. He’s been up most of the night, huddled away in between the rows of batteries and air fresheners, reading dosages and trying to sift through the notes left behind by fleeing biologists. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to Tony, but he doesn’t want to risk asking Bruce, doesn’t want to risk everyone else finding out in the process.

Plus, the Big Guy seems to have a penchant for smashing zombies. Isn’t worth that chance.

He winds up guesstimating the dosage anyway, his hands shaking too much to worry about precision. It isn’t as though it can actually make things worse and, well, side effects he can manage.

Though the nausea and dizziness are a pain in the ass.

As most shifts do, this one passes without interference or disaster. Someone’s boots are crunching across the gravel with big, heavy steps. Tony breaks from his half-dazed stare at the treeline to glance over his shoulder.

“Hiya, Cap. That time already?”

Tony isn’t sure how the sun has gotten so low in the sky. Maybe he blacked out for part of his shift. If so, he’s incredibly lucky that nothing had happened. The Captain isn’t returning Tony’s easy smile as he approaches, a hard line between his brows. 

“Yeah, you’re done for the day, Tony.”

“I’m good for a few more hours,” he insists, trying to keep the weariness from his tone. It winds up coming off as too-sharp, too-crisp, but that doesn’t change the tension fizzling between them. 

Cap jerks his head toward the ramshackle building. “Go. Get some rest. You look like hell.”

“Well thanks, you always know how to flatter a guy,” Tony mumbles, starting the slow, uneasy descent down the scaffolding. His limbs feel heavy, leaden, and more than once his foot slips on the metal rungs of the ladder. When his feet are finally on solid ground, Tony feels a shudder run through his spine, feels the moment his legs decide that standing is for suckers. He leans, hard, against the nearest solid thing.

The nearest solid thing happens to be Cap’s chest. When Tony looks up, there are hands hovering uneasily at his shoulders, a confused look on the man’s face. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Tony murmurs, pressing his face momentarily against a strong bicep as another wave of agonizing heat courses through him. It feels like he’s melting from the inside out.

There are cool palms at the back of his neck, strong digits pressing gentle and brief against his skin. “You have a fever,” Cap says, frown obvious in his tone. “Take some medicine when you get back in there, okay? Did you need me to go get someone to escort yo–”

“I’m fine,” Tony snaps, shoving off and away in one smooth (well, not smooth, but he doesn’t fall over so whatever) motion. He doesn’t look back as he drags his sorry self back to the main building—he doesn’t have to. He can _feel_ the disappointment of Cap’s gaze without looking to verify its existence. 

It’s fine. He has the drugs from the lab. He’s fine. He’s _managing_.

 

On the fourth day, he collapses.

“Tony!” Steve’s shouting at him. He sounds worried. He shouldn’t worry, Tony’s managing just fine. There’s a shuffle, a chill as his shirt is pulled up over the hollow length of his belly.

“Shit.”

“Is that…?”

“I don’t know. I don’t… Tony? Can you hear me?”

“He’s bit.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Rogers, look at that mess. It’s fucking infected. We’re lucky he hasn’t turned on us already.”

The sound of the safety coming off is a loud _snap_ in the empty room. 

“Get out of the way, Steve.”

“No.”

“Cap, you can’t save him.”

“I’m not going to let you shoot him like a damn dog!”

Everything is happening so fast, too fast for him to track with his eyes, and he’s tired. So fucking tired. Were the drugs supposed to make him tired? Or did they fail? Are they right? Is he turning?

“Steve,” Tony hisses, his throat feels raw and scratchy, like he gargled pinecones. Steve’s there in a second, kneeling at his side, holding his hand like he cares. It’s comforting, makes Tony want to drift off all over again, but he forces his eyes to stay open. This is important. “Not here,” is all he manages to get out, but his eyes drift to the others, to the civilians that have gathered around with various levels of shock and terror on their faces.

But Steve is smart. Steve gets it, right away, and scoops Tony up like he doesn’t weigh anything (which, to Steve, he probably doesn’t). He’s shouting orders to the others but Tony can’t hear him anymore. Can’t see either. His eyes have slid shut again. But he feels the sun on his skin and can smell the pine trees, can feel the pulse of Steve’s heartbeat against his temple. 

“—ony. Tony! You need to open your eyes. Come on, rise and shine, soldier.”

He wants to tell Steve off, to say he’s not a soldier, but his mouth doesn’t seem to be working anymore, either. Tony opens his lips only to snap them shut when he can’t find the words, so he struggles to sit up instead, feeling the strength of Steve’s palm against his back. When he does manage to open his eyes, he wishes he hadn’t. Steve looks upset, his eyes are kind of watery and they’re pinched around the corners. He wants to punch whoever made Steve look like that.

Oh, wait.

It was him.

He should really punch himself, but before he can put that thought to action Steve is pressing a pistol into his hands, his useless, leaden hands. Tony glances up at him, brows furrowed in what he hopes is a display of confusion. 

“I’m going to fire a shot, but I want you to run, okay? I…I don’t know if you’re going to turn, I’m sure you had some kind of a plan to prevent it. That’s why you took so long on the med run the other day, isn’t it?”

Tony finds that all he can do is nod, his head lolling on his shoulders from the jerky motion.

Steve smiles at him, but it’s shaky and full of water and fear and something else Tony doesn’t have the capacity to place right now. “So you run. I’m letting you go, but the others will think… If anyone can beat this thing, it’s you, Tony. So run, and if,” he pauses, clears his throat, “ _when_ you’re **you** again…come back to me?”

Tony feels his heart shudder at the word. _Me_. Not _us_ or _we_ or _them_ but _me_. Come back to _Steve_.

He likes the sound of that. Again, words are failing him, so he just bobs his head and watches the smile that unfolds across Steve’s features, the way it lights up his eyes and allows the tears to flow freely. Steve stands, brushes the pine needles from his knees and raises his rifle to the air, lets off a single shot against the golden hues of the sky. Then he’s walking away, and Tony knows he needs to get up, needs to move, needs to keep going before the others find him (or better yet, before more undead find him), but it’s hard. It’s so hard, and the pistol is heavy in his hands.

Tony gets up and starts walking.


End file.
